The Wolf and The Hound
by Principle-Of-Evil
Summary: It's been four years since Sandor last saw Arya. She refused to give him a mercy killing and he's not forgiven her for leaving him there to die under that tree. She had been his only real friend and having her walk out of his life in such a cold fashion has left him with a scar much worse than the one he wears on his face. - Some parts pulled from the books but most from the show.
1. Chapter 1

**Chapter 1 - Mercy**

* * *

How long had he been waiting there – was it now two days or three? He was fairly sure it had just been two days but it was hard to tell. Maybe it really had been three. It didn't matter though; he would wait for five if he had to. His eyes were getting heavier and heavier as he stared out at the road, several yards away though and he wasn't sure how long he was going to be able to keep them open. It was his obsession that pressed him on, forced him to stay awake – if he slipped into sleep then he would miss her and if he missed her now, then it would make what he wanted to do all the more difficult.

He hadn't seen her in four years but he heard about her constantly and it drove him mad. When he had been wounded she had left him sitting under a tree, refusing to give him a merciful death. He hadn't died though, regardless of the rumors but all through his recovery he had cursed her name. There was no reason for it, not that he could see, but he felt heartbroken. She was just a kid, far older than her actual years of course, but still a kid – yet, if he would have ever counted someone as being his friend, it would have been her. In a way he was almost offended by her departure from him. How dare she stroll into his life, into his heart and then just suddenly leave when he needed her the most. For two years, after that first year of recovery, he managed to put her out of his mind. Then word of her started to spread – young Arya Stark, refusing to return home and instead becoming a mercenary of sorts. He could only catch bits and pieces of her story but he understood it for the most part.

She had, apparently, found a nice little way of finishing off that list of hers. The war was over, a new queen sat upon the throne but there was still work to be done and she was willing to do it. She would pull in bounties for brining in some people, killing others and taking their heads but it was never considered murder because it was done in the name of the Queen. It was no wonder, given her nature and stance in the war, that most of the people on her list were also on the Queens.

He would shrug off the news as nothing, laugh it off and go about his business. You could say he was in the same business but not at such a large scale. There were smaller kingships and villages that offered their own bounties and he was happy to take them. Post-war killing was the most profitable and he was taking full advantage of every opportunity offered to him. He had a nice pile of gold and silver saved up, for what reasons he wasn't sure but you can only spend so much before you run out of things to spend it on. If anything he did what he did because he enjoyed it and it kept him going.

It wasn't until he started to hear more about her that his blood began to boil with rage towards her. She went by the name Mercy – he remembered hearing about it the very first time. He had been in a tavern, overhearing a conversation and when he heard that, he flew into a frenzy. There were very few left standing that night. It took him a while to calm himself down but even when he had calmed he couldn't figure out why he reacted that way. It was him brother that would have those kind of episodes, not him – so why? He would lay awake at night, thinking about her and this new name of hers. He would seethe till he felt he couldn't breathe anymore and then the feeling would subside. How dare she call herself Mercy when she had shown him none. It was after that night that he began plotting against her. It seemed like every other day he would hear about her and just hearing her name was too much, seeing anyone of her likeness was too much – he hated it. He figured if he could just be rid of her then the pain would stop and he could finally get her off his mind.

It took a long while but about two month previous he was finally able to track her down to a specific village. From there it became of game of cat and mouse – he would follow her to a village, usually several days late and then find where she had gone next. It seemed that he was always two steps behind her but not now. About a week ago he stumbled across a useful piece of information that allowed him to take a few steps ahead of her. He found out who her next target was but unlike her, he actually knew where this person was. It was rumored that they were in one village but in all actuality they were in another a few miles to the south – she wouldn't know this. No, she would go to their last known whereabouts, find out that they had moved on and then she would have to travel the lonely stretch of road to get there.

He was elated to find that he had finally been given his opportunity. The road went through mostly flat lands but near the end, about an eighth of a mile outside the village, there was a small forest area where the trees came right up to the road. This is where he waited for her. The tree-line and foliage offered a good amount of coverage, so she wouldn't see him coming. Not only did he have the cover of the trees but earlier that day angry rainclouds came rolling in and the area was flooded with thick globs of rain – offering ever more coverage. If he was lucky, she would cross today. There couldn't have been a more perfect time.

And so, there the hound sat, his cloak pulled tightly around him, warding off the bitter cold chill in the air. Unknown to him though, as his heavy head began to lull and droop, a pair of grey eyes were watching him from even deeper in the forest. She was already there and she prided herself on the fact that she was able to determine exactly what he would do and where he would hide. She may have been off a few yards, honestly there were better places that offered more coverage but she was still close.

Three months ago she had heard that he was still alive, three months – before that she had assumed he was dead. It was rather surprising actually. There were some reports stating that he still lurked the world of the living but they were rather vague and outlandish. She found out when she went to turn in one bounty and receive a more up to date list from King's Landing. He was at the top of it because of his numerous killing sprees. It wasn't really the murders that caught the Queens attention though, but rather his closeness to the previous king. Someone _that_ wrapped up in the Lannisters business was bound to know some things. Arya didn't particularly agree that he would provide any useful information but she set out with only _his_ name on her mind. In a way she sort of…missed him, as odd as that may sound. Tracking him down was a good way seeing him again, she supposed. Not only that but if she were to ever cross him and not bring him in and someone were to find out – it would cause trouble.

If anything she planned on telling him about the bounty on his head. There was no chance he would know about it, the full list was only ever given to a select few mercenaries and he, obviously, would not be one of those few. If she told him about the bounty there was a chance he would come with her willingly, if she promised to split the silver offered. There was no reason for him to be taken into permanent custody, so it wasn't like he would have to worry about anything. She didn't have to fret about anyone getting in her way either, which did occasionally happen. There wasn't a man or woman alive that would ever try to take him into custody – especially if he had to be transported over a long distance.

This _was_ the plan but then something changed. When she set out to find him she found that _he_ was looking for _her_. She remembered the night she found out – it was in a tavern. When she asked the bar-keep about him he had turned ashen and sickly looking. He said he had seen him and he was looking for someone, that someone being her. The barkeep said the hound had mentioned to a few men in the tavern that he planned on "lopping that girls 'ead off". He was drunk at the time and more than a little incoherent but he had ranted about Arya for a good solid hour. When one of the other men asked him the reason for his hatred – he killed him then left.

The news shook Arya more than she cared to admit. It wasn't that she was frightened, though she was, but more than that there was a feeling of betrayal. Her only conclusion for him seeking out her head was that somewhere there was a bounty for it. Usually when her name would come up, as it sometimes did, she would hear about it and the situation would be neutralized. She hadn't heard anything about this though, even when looking deeper into it. Which meant that whoever had a bounty on her was secret and underground – the last thing a kingdom needs when recovering from war is another war.

She didn't send any word to King's Landing, just in case she was wrong but she felt even more pressed to bring Sandor in. It would be a tough task though, given his size and strength but she figured she could manage. She started by allowing bits of information to leak, letting him pick up her trail. Then, she began working him closer and closer to Kings Landing. It was much easier this way, though it did take more time. The only problem was that he had gotten closer to her than she anticipated and she knew she would have to spring her own trap before he was able to spring one legitimately his own. If she had tried quickening her pace, putting more space between them or changing how she dropped information, then he would have become suspicious. So, she decided to risk it – they were still two weeks away from King's Landing with how slow traveling with him would be but she didn't have any other options.

The only way to approach him safely would be to ambush him – like he was planning on doing to her. The truth was, she could probably take him in a fight but she would probably end up killing him and she needed him alive.

She had only been there for about an hour and she was surprised to see his current state of being. He was tired, she could tell by how he was drooping and she wondered how long he had been sitting there, waiting. Because of the flat lands she had to find a way of getting _to_ and then _through_ the forest without him seeing. She had been right about his location but she had opened herself to the possibility that he may choose another spot. It was the long way around for her, through dense forest and she had to be quite as she got closer to him. But now she was there – she just had to work up the nerve and wait for the right moment.

He wasn't the largest man she had taken down but he made her anxious. It was like all those years ago, when she had that rock and she planned on bashing his head in. He warned her that if she were to strike, then she better be sure to hit hard enough to kill him. This time she didn't have a rock, she had a poisoned needle which, once it pierced his skin, should debilitate him within a few seconds...should. She imagined miscalculating the dilution of the poison relative to his size and like an angry bear just managing to piss him off. If he caught her off her own guard he could easily kill her. She was still relatively small, only growing a few inches from when they had parted ways and she wasn't particularly strong. It was her agility that would give her an advantage but with that close of proximity it would mean nothing.

Arya watched his head droop over and over till it finally stayed down. This was her chance and she couldn't believe her luck. She thought it would be much harder, she didn't think he would push himself to the brink of exhaustion like he had. With a small smirk she moved forward silently and within a few seconds she was directly behind him. It amazed her, he was out cold – she was even able to take her time finding the perfect spot of exposed flesh on the back of his neck.

She took a deep breath and then quickly jabbed him. There was no worry of damaging him, she knew her anatomy very well and there wasn't anything but muscle being pierced. In a few split seconds there were multiple actions that took place. First, as expected, he reached back and swatted at the needle thinking it was a bug. Then, his fingers closed around the thin piece of metal – brining it around to look at. She saw his whole body tense and then he sluggishly wheeled around to look at her.

Sandor felt dizzy but then adrenaline started to kick in, countering the feeling. When his eyes locked in on his assassin he almost couldn't believe it. It was her – her face had matured, she was a bit taller, plumper, and her hair was longer but there was no mistaking it… it was her. Even in his dazed state he couldn't help but note how much she had changed – perhaps it was the poison but he found himself staring at her stupidly. Then reality began to fall in around him and he remembered that he wanted to kill her and she had just managed to get an upper hand on him.

He fumbled with his sword but managed to pick it up – then he bellowed. It sounded more like a roar and it startled Arya a little bit. He wasn't going down like she had planned. No, he was charging at her. In a panic she shuffled backwards and tripped on some roots – he was such an intimidating sight that she momentarily forgot how to use her legs. She pushed and scrambled backwards but couldn't manage to get up off the forest floor. Sandor was upon her in a few large steps but just as he raised his sword, his eyes rolled to the back of his head. He stumbled from left to right and then he was down with a large thud.

It took a few long minutes for Arya to force her heart out of her throat and back into her chest. Once she had managed that she realized that if she didn't get him onto his back then he was going to drown in the large puddle accumulating around his face. It took some effort but she managed to push him over and she stared down at him – he looked different. She couldn't quite place what was different about him but he was different. He didn't look older, actually he looked a bit younger. He had put on a little more weight, like he had actually been taking care of himself. Even his clothes were less shabby than she remembered. She regarded him for a moment longer and then set about binding his arms and legs.

There was no way that she was going to be able to get her horse and cart through the woods so she had left them in a safe location. The only difficulty was going to be getting him into said cart but she figured a knife to the back would do the trick. She looked him over, to make sure he was secure and then she stood. It was really lucky to have him so close to the main road but still hidden – she'd be able to leave him there while she went to get the cart. Her main issue would be getting back before he woke up. The poison was strong and should have kept him out for a while but then again it should have knocked him out sooner. She worried her bottom lip and she thought about it. This wasn't going to be as easy as she thought it was going to be. Sure, he was bound but given enough effort he would be able to break free – she would have to make sure to keep an eye on him which meant there were many sleepless nights ahead of her. If anything, she shrugged, she would just keep poisoning him and hope that it didn't cause any permanent damage.

Getting the cart, bringing it to the right spot and getting everything ready was the easy part – taking only a few hours. Now, she had to wait for him to wake up, enough to get him to stand at least because she wasn't going to be able to lift him.

It took him longer to wake up than she had wished it would, the sun was already beginning to set but at least the rain had stopped. Luckily she kept dry wood with her and she was able to make a nice little fire. She had to drag Sandor's body further away from the road and away from sight, just in case. It wasn't an easy task but it was better than having someone stumble across them.

When the sun was beyond the horizon but its light was still being cast, his breathing began to quicken and Arya knew that he was going to wake up at any moment. She grabbed her sworn and made her way over to him with a rag in her other hand. It wouldn't be like him to start screaming like a little girl but she didn't want to take any chances. She quickly wound up the rag up and used it to gag him. She took a few steps back from him and smirked to herself. It would be fun to see his reaction.

Sandor didn't wake up all at once, it was rather slow till he began to realize that he was tied up and gagged – then he really woke up. He began to twine his hands violently behind him and struggled with the ropes around his feet. This is when Arya stepped in, she stood and put her blade to his throat, making a small tittering noise as she did so. It was enough to get him to stop what he was doing.

"No more of that," she said, a hint of malice in her voice. "You're going to sit there like a good little boy and you're going to answer some questions."

To say that he looked surprised was an understatement. He had never dreamed that she would have been looking for him, let alone know that he had been following her. It was so surreal to see her standing there and he wasn't sure how to feel about it. Sure, he had planned on killing her but now here she was. He felt both angry and relieved at the same time to see her again. Angry because she had left him and relieved because no matter how he looked at it, he had missed her. Then there was a level of frustration that began to well up because he was bound and gagged. With the anger subdued he sort of just wanted to get up, scold her for leaving him, throw her on his horse and then ride off somewhere – just like it used to be. It wasn't until he was able to finally see her that he realized why she had caused such emotions for him. His life was fraught with tragedy and pain – the time spent with her hadn't been easy but it had been the closest he had been to happy since before he had been burned. Taking care of her, unlike the king, had given him a purpose that had been worthwhile. He missed it.

"Now," said Arya, oblivious to his inner turmoil. "You're going to tell me why you were looking for me, you're going to tell me who sent you, you're going to tell me where to find them and why they want me, and then I'm going to take you to King's Landing, collect my bounty and be on my way. If you resist me, I will kill you and I will collect half the bounty. I've gone through a lot of trouble to get you though so if you make me kill you – just know that I will make it hell for you."

Sandor blinked up at her, not even sure what to say to that. He didn't know he had a bounty on his head and he had no idea what the rest of what she was saying was about. Though, now that he thought about it, he wasn't sure what he would tell her – did he tell her that he simply wanted to kill her because he missed her and he didn't like it? He had no intention of letting that slip out so; he decided he wasn't going to say anything at all. Even if she killed him it would be better than confessing that kind of rubbish.

Because he gave no response, Arya heaved a heavy sigh and pressed the blade against his throat. When he still didn't say anything she pressed harder, enough to draw a small amount of blood. Still nothing, but his eyes did start to water, taking her by surprise. Against her better judgment she reached down and undid the gag then screamed "Talk!".

He flinched but then his face pulled back into a snarl.

"Why the fuck did you leave!" he bellowed. "You just fucking left me there to die and rot. You wouldn't even do me the kindness of killing me!"

Arya was taken aback by his outburst. Of all the things she had been expecting, she hadn't been expecting that. She opened her mouth a few times, trying to come up a response but couldn't think of anything. Why had she left him there without giving him a mercy killing? He meant too much to her, she cared too much about him. As much fighting as they did, she really did care for him. There had been so many deaths in her life, so many people she loved – gone. There was no way she could be responsible for his death also.

* * *

AN: There you have it – the first Chapter ^_^

Sandor – "The hound" is placed as being 18 years older than Arya. She's 18 at this point which would make Sandor 36. I know the age gap is pretty big but I've always loved the idea of the hound and an older Arya getting together in the end ^_^

Anyway, in the cultural setting of Game of Thrones their relationship wouldn't seem all that odd anyways.


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2 – Obsession**

* * *

Arya had considered untying him but the prospect brought too many variables, all of which could end with him killing her. Though there was a spark of care, with how he was acting, she was still wary of Sandor. It was like coming across a wounded dog and desiring to help it but not willing to take the risk of being bitten by it. He was still huge, formidable looking, terrifying – but he also looked so vulnerable and lost. Looking back at all their time together it was the first time she had seen him look like this. Even when he was under the tree, there hadn't been this level of vulnerability.

Sitting there under the soggy canopy, Arya allowed herself to relax her body against a tree. The hound stirred a little in his slumber at the sound of rustling leaves as she moved to get comfortable but his eyes never opened. So much had changed in the world but sitting there with him again it felt like they were back in the past, where he was her pseudo protector and she was his. Despite the age difference, her lack of experience, drastic size difference and conflicting interests – they really had taken care of one another very well. Truthfully, if he wasn't going completely mental, she would have been happy to have him join her.

Arya tipped her head to the side and stared at his sleeping form, long and hard. She liked working alone, if you worked alone then you weren't responsible for other people and that was something she enjoyed. Though, she did sometimes get lonely – a fact that she usually brushed off. It wasn't until that moment, with him sitting there asleep, that she began to see how alone she had really been.

It wouldn't be so bad, she mused, if he were to join her again. If there was some shred of rational thought left in that big head of his, then… well, she would have to see where all of this took her. She still had to bring him to King's Landing, to the queen but that, she hoped, wouldn't end too badly.

He was sleeping heavily, she could always tell when he was really asleep and just pretending to be sleeping. His breathing would change, something she was sure that he wasn't even aware of. He would take in a deep breath, hold it for a second and then let it out with a soft snore. It was something she had never mentioned to him – because she liked that she could tell if he was faking and she didn't need him changing how he pretended to sleep.

"You don't disserve mercy."

The words were harsh, rasped – though they were soft, they held venom and it struck Arya to her very core when they were uttered. Sandor slowly lifted his head to look at Arya. His eyes were dark and menacing but there was still that vulnerability there that shook her the most.

"What did you mean by that?" asked Sandor, an unpredictable danger lacing his wavering voice. "I sat there, for a long time, unable to do it myself, just thinking about what you could have meant. Did I not disserve mercy? Did I not protect you? Did I not take care of you? Then why would I not disserve mercy?"

Arya swallowed the lump forming in her throat as she recalled the last time they had seen one another. Somewhere in her memory the scene had played out much differently but now, with him bringing it up, she had to remember it how it really had been. Everything he was saying was the truth, she had looked at him and told him that he didn't disserve mercy – then she left him there. The memory made her eyes sting a little because, unknown to the hound, it had killed her to leave him there. He had become dear to her, despite all that he had done and the trouble he had caused her.

"What did you expect me to do?" Arya asked. She tried to keep her voice distant, detached but she was failing. "Would you prefer to be dead?"

Sandor wrung his hands against the ropes and kicked his feat, screaming. "Yes, I would have preferred to be dead!" he bellowed.

Arya was up in an instant with her sword in hand. If he kept at it she knew he had the strength to break the ropes. It had been her plan to poison him again or, if that failed, to kill him but she was glued to the spot – watching him. Through his screams, incoherent yelling, and grunts – she could hear his voice cracking. He was beginning to cry. Not soft sobbing, no, his tears were full of rage and betrayal. If anything, despite the danger, she wanted to reach out to him – explain to him why she had left him there, why she hadn't given him mercy.

She was so lost in the anguished look on his face that the world around her began to fade away. There was an inky dumb feeling that washed over her as she stared at him. It kept her from reacting when the first rope broke and the others followed.

"Wait," she only mumbled when he was up and charging at her.

There was never a person that made her feel as small as Sandor did when he stood beside her and she couldn't have felt smaller when he grabbed hold of her, wringing the sword from her hand.

Then everything went black.

* * *

"You don't disserve mercy," said Arya as she stood over the hound. She couldn't look him in the eye as she said it because she couldn't stand to see the desperation that was there.

He was in so much pain, she could tell by how he was acting. His voice was softer, his movements were sluggish and he was speaking to Arya in a way that he never had. She wasn't just some silly little girl anymore; she knew that to him, she was his partner. In a strange way, even though he never treated her as such, he saw her as his equal. It killed her.

Even as he started to get angry, started to curse her name, she wouldn't look at him – not directly. She left his horse there with him and pulled herself up onto her own.

"Arya," he croaked miserably but she didn't look back.

She couldn't look back.

* * *

It was early morning, she could tell from how the light was falling across the bed. It was a soft blue that only comes with the first morning light. In her haze she recalled how her mother would say that this kind of light was special – it was the light of the fae. It was a notion that hadn't crossed her mind in a long time; she had put aside all silly childish thoughts like that. There's no room for them in a war.

As she started at the thin beam of light running across her lap she started to realize how strange it was. She was somewhere comfortable, very comfortable – the kind of comfort that only comes from a bed. Her vision was blurred but as her eyes darted around the room she started to see shapes with more detail. It was a bedroom, worn and dusty but still rather nice. It smelled of slight decay, which was probably coming from the leaves that scattered the floor.

Had someone rescued her? It had to be someone of fairly high stature because the room was definitely more put together than most taverns and inns she had been to.

Arya tried to sit up but when she did, she felt the thick leather strips keeping her arms up above her head. No, she hadn't been rescued, she was a prisoner. The idea of being in a bed caused her more panic now. Her body was sore and she feared the worst. Though she was tied down pretty tightly she was still able to wiggle her hips around. After a few moments she breathed a sigh of relief.

She had never bothered with physical or romantic relationships and although she was older and rode a horse on a regular basis, she assumed that if they had taken advantage of her physically then there would have been some kind of pain…in that region.

Her momentary relief was short though. As she settled back down on the bed and started to look for a way to free her hands, she could hear heavy footsteps coming close and closer to the room. From the sound, she had to guess that she was upstairs because the thud of boots on wood seemed to be coming from below and then they moved upwards. For whatever reason she assumed it had be a person that had taken her from Sandor, either willingly or by force. So, when he opened the door she was rather surprised.

He was cleaner than she remembered seeing him – ever. His armor was gone and instead he wore a dark blue shirt, breeches and of course his boots. He looked rather nice, she had to admit. It was almost a comfort to see him more put together, after his outburst and the total breakdown she had witnessed earlier. At that though she snapped out of her consideration of him and jerked at her restraints.

"The fuck you think you're doing?" she snapped.

The hound stopped in his approach and laughed a little – though rather bitterly.

"Such language," he mocked. "You always were a snarky little brat but a well spoken one. Has the world finally corrupted those insufferable manners of yours?"

Arya glared at him, then, in a tone more similar to the one her sister would use, she said, "Dear sir, pray tell why you have tied me to this bed and what is it that you wish to accomplish from such an endeavor?"

The hound nodded and pulled a chair from the corner of the room to the side of the bed. "Well, I was going to kill you and I still might but I may complete our little journey from years ago – You know, I'm not the only one with a pretty bounty on my head. With how much trouble I went through back then, I never did get the silver I had hoped I would get."

Arya could feel the color draining from her face. When they traveled together back then it had been different – sure, he had tried handing her in for silver but only to her family. Anyone putting a bounty on her head now was sure to want her dead. That or they were part of the dwindling rebel forces that planned on torturing her for information.

"I figured it would be fair. You planned on doing the same with me," said Sandor.

"To the Queen," Arya growled. "Not to some kind of sick scum."

"Who says their scum?" asked Sandor innocently.

"If they want me, they're scum!"

"Oh really? Well, that will be your problem, not mine."

"Who?" Arya demanded and Sandor smirked.

"Ah well, I haven't decided on that yet. Whoever has the highest bounty, I guess. Hadn't really thought about it till now. I mean, I heard rumors and even had some offers but I didn't plan on taking any of them – not till you told me what you had planned."

Arya started to pull at her restrains again, twisting her hands in a poor attempt to free herself. Sandor watched her with mock patience and laughed.

"Unlike you, little girl, I actually know how to subdue someone. I'd give up now, before you hurt yourself," he laughed.

"Fuck you!" Arya screamed.

* * *

Three hours, you would think her voice would go out after screaming for so long but she was still at it. Sandor tried to block out the noise but it was useless, even when he went outside he could still hear her. Luckily, his little retreat was a few miles away from any other home or village. When he had first acquired the house, he wondered why he even bothered taking it but now he was sort of happy he had. It had belonged to a sickly old woman and because of its rather remote and hidden location it remained untouched during the war. The woman had only been vaguely aware of the turmoil surrounding her – her only concern being that her son had stopped bringing her provisions.

His first instinct had been to just kill her and take the house but he decided against it. He wasn't sure if she still had family but he didn't need them showing up later and causing him trouble – so he let her live. It was just after the wars ended and the queen took the Iron Throne. He brought the old woman the provisions she had been so desperately needing and each time he came he would ask if anyone else had stopped by the house. This went on for about a year and by that time he had already started to earn himself a small fortune.

He could have found another home, even one closer to a village but this one seemed so perfect. As far as the rest of the world knew, it didn't exist. It was also it pretty good shape, not the kind of hovels that some lived in.

Then, when he returned again, he found the woman in the same bed he had Arya tied to. It was obvious she was dying but he had to give her credit, she was going out in style. The whole house had been cleaned, from top to bottom and she was bathed and dressed in her finest gown. He remembered walking into her room and seeing her give a small smile. She beckoned him closer and then took his hand.

"I must thank you," she wheezed. "I know why you've been coming to see me and you must be happy to see that this day has finally come."

Though he hated to admit it, he had felt a small twinge of guilt.

"But you didn't kill me, you at least waited. It would seem that my son is never going to come back, so, with him gone – I think I would like for you to stay here. My great-grandfather built this house, away from everything, always hidden…my guess is that he was a lot like you – he didn't want to be found. It seems only natural for the house to once again become a refuge."

Sandor shook his head and chuckled a little at the memory. The old woman had given him a full history of her family, what the house had seen, what she had seen – her life story pretty much. Then, as she was dwindling she looked at him and whispered something.

"He was a hard man, just like you but he was able to find joy in his family. I hope that you can one day find something that would bring back joy to you as well. I'd very much like to see children in this house again."

Settle down, find a wife and bring little monsters into this god-forsaken world – that's pretty much what she said before she died. He shuttered to think of what she would say if she could see how he was using the house now. It would be a gloried prison for Arya until he decided on what he wanted to do with her. At the moment, with her constant screeching, he almost considered just leaving her tied up there on that bed. It would serve her right for leaving him to die and subconsciously that's what he really wanted – he wanted her to know what it's like to be left behind to die a miserable death.

With that in mind, Sandor stood from his place in the overgrown garden and marched into the house. He was in one of his moods but unlike his other moods, now Arya was here to listen to what he had to say. He clunked through the dusty house, up the stairs and back into her room. She stopped screaming for just a moment and then started up again. Every curse ever imagined was being hurled his way but didn't care. He stalked over to her bed, not even caring that her wrists had been rubbed so raw that they were bleeding. He reached down, grabbed her by the throat and glowered down at her.

Her screaming stopped then, turning into choked gasps. "Beg me for mercy," he growled.

He was satisfied to see the confusion and pain in her grey eyes and he tightened his grip on her throat. "I'm going to leave you here to rot unless you beg me for mercy."

This was the moment, finally the moment and he was so close to getting the release that he so desperately wanted. She had broken his heart, left him there to die and now he was going to do the same. Of all the ideas he had come up with, this is the one that brought him the most satisfaction. He let go of her and took a few steps back, breathing heavily, waiting for her to do as he said.

Several moments went by and she didn't say anything at all – she just stared up at him with a bewildered but calculating expression. He didn't like the look at all; it felt like she was picking him apart. Didn't she understand? Why wasn't she saying anything?

"You either die up here of starvation or I'll kill you quickly!" he screamed, making Arya jump. "Now beg for mercy!"

Silence.

The hound could feel his whole body tensing. She wasn't giving him what he wanted. Even when he had the upper hand, she was still denying him mercy. Why didn't she understand why he needed this? Why was she so cold to him?

Silence.

He wanted to reach down and strangle her but he refrained. One way or another he was going to get what he wanted. He was going to do everything to make her life miserable, until she finally begged him for mercy – and then he could refuse…and leave her there to die.

"Fine!" he screamed and then he was gone.

Her throat hurt, her wrists hurts but the pain didn't really register. Arya stopped in her struggling and relaxed into the bed. Though she didn't understand why, she felt guilty. He was looking to do the same thing to her as she had done to him. Did he think that it would bring him some kind of closure? What exactly was he looking for? It made her chest ache to see him like this, he looked put together but she knew he wasn't there mentally. He was lost somewhere in the bitterness that festered from being left alone like that.

For the first time she put herself in his position and began to work from there. She recalled everything he had told her about his life, what his brother had done, how his father had treated him, how other people had regarded him. At one point in time he had even confided in her on his attachment to her sister. All of it pieced together into a larger picture. On the outside he seemed to be a cold and heartless individual but… there was something more there. He was lonely, he was betrayed, he was hurt and what she had done to him had pushed him over the edge. She took for granted her own willingness to speak about her life and never stopped to consider how much it had taken for Sandor to open up to her the way that he had – then she betrayed that trust and abandoned him.

In the silence of her room she could feel tears begin to dampen her cheeks. For the first time in their long history, she no longer saw him as the monster – she saw herself as the monster.

* * *

The room was dark; there wasn't even a trace of moonlight. If it weren't for the fact that she could feel herself blinking she would have sworn that her eyes were still closed. But she had to stay quite because she knew, somewhere to her right, he was there.

His breathing was erratic and she could occasionally make out a soft whining noise – like the whimpering of a dog. It seemed like a bizarre notion but there was no denying it, he was crying. It wasn't like the angry tears that she had witnessed the day before, no, these were softer and she could hear the pain. The idea of saying something kept nagging at her but she wasn't sure what to say – she was still frightened of his mental state. The last thing she wanted to do was to make him angry but as the soft sounds continued she could feel the tightening in her chest steadily rising. She had to say something.

"Do you want to know why I didn't kill you?" she asked.

There was a muffled sniffle and then silence. She supposed that he didn't like that she had heard him. He probably thought that she was still asleep. He didn't respond but she couldn't hear him moving either. Maybe he was trying to pretend like he wasn't there at all.

"I couldn't," she said when it became apparent that she wasn't going to get a response. "I know it seemed heartless but that's because that's how I wanted it to be. I thought that maybe, if I acted like I didn't care then I would stop caring. Killing you would have been like killing one of my brothers, or my father… I know you needed me to but I couldn't do it. I told you that you didn't disserve mercy and that was a lie, just something to say, something I knew you wouldn't object to…I didn't want you to beg and if I didn't act like that…if I didn't leave…I knew you would…and my heart couldn't take it."

There was a shuffling sound and it unnerved her a little bit. She knew he was moving closer to her but she wasn't sure what to expect. Would he hit her? Try strangling her again? Stab her? Slit her throat?

He was right beside the bed, she could tell by the feeling of heat and the muffling of sound by her right side. Then, there was more shuffling… then a thud that shook the bed.

Her whole body was trembling as she tried to mentally prepare herself for whatever it was that he planned on doing. But he did something she did not foresee – he dropped his head to her stomach, resting it there and then he began to cry again. She couldn't hear him this time but she could tell by the rhythmic shuttering that he was indeed crying.

It shocked her.

She wasn't sure if she should say anything, if she should try soothing him – so she remained silent and stared up into the darkness. Even after the shuttering stopped and his breathing softened, she remained still.

Somewhere in the night sleep overcame her, taking her till first light spilled into the room once again. The sight she awoke to was hard to process. He was still there, somewhat kneeling with his upper body resting against the bed and her midsection. His heavy head was still pressed to her stomach but now he had an arm curled up and around her – like she was a pillow.

The sound of him crying began to play again in her head, causing her heart to writhe and twist in her chest. The situation was more than disturbing but the compassion she felt for him overrided the reality of it all. If anything, her greatest desire was to reach down and smooth out his tangled hair in a small attempt to take away the pain that she had apparently caused him.

Somehow, she was going to make it right again.

* * *

AN: Thank you much for the reviews; they are a great encouragement for me :)

Now, Sandor may seem a little weird and at first I wasn't sure I wanted to take the story in this direction – thus the reason for this chapter taking so long. Originally I planned on going for a less psychological route but as I re-evaluated his character I knew this is the way I needed and wanted to go. In the series and in the books he shows a lot of obsessive characteristics – like this his relationship with Sansa and later his attachment to Arya. I see him as an individual that does have obsessive compulsive issues stemmed from a lot of trauma in his life.

One of my inspirations for this story, and you can watch it over on youtube, is a small documentary on a lioness that adopts a baby antelope. It seems really really sweet and all… until you look into psychology of it. It reminded me a lot of Sandor.

It will get less creepy as the story goes on though – so stick with me!

It has a good ending, I swear!...Maybe…


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